


Blessing or Curse

by TheAsexualofSpades



Series: Quarantine Drabbles [119]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Sir Leon the Long Suffering, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, can be platonic or romantic you decide, he's okay tho I promise, listen i love our boi it's just this isn't easy okay, that tag is normally funnier but i'm sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-21
Updated: 2020-07-21
Packaged: 2021-03-05 02:35:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,317
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25427005
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheAsexualofSpades/pseuds/TheAsexualofSpades
Summary: Leon is the first. The first knight, the first fallen, the first risen.He's lived. He lives. He will live.He drank from the Cup of Life alongside the Druids and it has yet to fail. It hasn't been easy.
Relationships: Leon & Arthur Pendragon (Merlin), Leon & Merlin (Merlin), Merlin & Arthur Pendragon (Merlin), Merlin/Arthur Pendragon (Merlin)
Series: Quarantine Drabbles [119]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1677655
Comments: 13
Kudos: 199





	Blessing or Curse

**Author's Note:**

> thanks to Jenny for asking for this! It got waaayyy angstier than i was expecting so sorry if it's too much but I had fun!

Fandom: Merlin (BBC)

Prompt: Will you ever write a fic from his (Leon’s) POV, him learning about his immortality and learning to accept it? I imagine he and Merlin would have become closer friends because of it. - Jenny

* * *

If it gives him nothing else, it gives him time to think.

He should have realized it the moment the Cup touched his lips, Leon knows, when he had been cut down by an enemy he could not hope to defeat and yet woke up, gasping at the feet of the Druids. He had heard stories about the Cup of Life, how it was too powerful to be destroyed, one of the last vestiges of pure magic the world knew. Leon never thought he would be beholden to its power himself.

Then came that whole messy affair with the immortal army and, well, he’d had other things to think about at the time.

He should’ve realized after the dragon. An entire brigade had ridden out to face the beast and yet only three of them returned. Leon knows why Arthur and Merlin returned, if only in hindsight. He has—well, _had—_ no idea why he did. And why him, out of all the knights? What made _him_ so special? He was not particularly forthcoming on various stances, he took up no extreme political positions. He was of noble blood, but life didn’t particularly care about someone’s birthright, not in this sense.

He would’ve done things differently, he would, if he knew he could not die. He would’ve fought harder, used himself as a shield to protect those who could not. He would’ve gone in place of others who could be hurt. He would’ve—

Well. There is little use dwelling on things that have happened. He cannot go back to change them.

Life is…hard. Not just because it _is,_ irrevocably and unchangingly, but because without death, finding meaning in life is…difficult. People are, and always have been, creatures of stories. Leon has learned that more than most.

People are born to sing, to create, to share. They turn their worlds into stories, their lives into epic tales that will be spun around campfires for eons to come. No story is worth more than any other, Leon had learned, but it is hard to remember a story when one doesn’t know it, to begin with.

His story was supposed to end eons ago.

Sir Leon, knight of Camelot. Born and raised under the rule of Uther Pendragon, appointed a Knight of Camelot. Served Arthur Pendragon for years as a Knight of the Round Table until the King’s death, upon which he was appointed the Prince Consort under Queen Guinevere. Helped to legalize magic alongside the Greatest Sorcerer to Walk the Earth, Merlin Emrys.

That was supposed to be it.

It was _more_ than enough, with its own set of stories and far too many ‘proper titles,’ if he was being honest. He had lived more in that one single lifetime than many in several. And yet…

Here he was.

He would not be too proud to admit he…disagreed with destiny’s decision to keep him alive when he first discovered his immortality. He would not be too proud to say that it was a curse, not a blessing, to live. To live and live and live.

It was not a blessing to watch the world change so much you forgot what it once was. It was not a blessing to watch your loved ones grow old and frail while you haven’t aged a day. it was not a blessing to watch the world forget about your family, leaving gaping holes in your soul that would never be filled.

It was a guarantee of loneliness, the only constant in this fate. Loneliness was patient, Leon had learned. Patient in a way that the night waits for the day, the way winter waits for the summer, and the way death waits for life.

Perhaps not that last one, eh?

Loneliness sought after him with a determined zeal that made the hairs stand up on the back of his neck. Every interaction, every hello, every story was tinged with the muffled taste of temporary. Time loomed in the back of Leon’s head, not for himself, but for others. As they walked, talked, breathed, he heard the _tick, tick, tick,_ of the clock, counting for everyone except for him.

He threw himself into work. First in Camelot, striving tirelessly to legalize magic, to correct the wrongs that had been done over countless years, to make it safe for everyone. He had fooled himself into believing that if he helped make Camelot perfect, everyone else would live with him. _Live_ with him.

But when Guinevere’s hand fell limp in his and a new monarch rose to the throne, he had to leave. He knew that he had served three monarchs now, each dying on his watch, and he could bear it no longer. So he became a sellsword, taking jobs that would do good and vanishing just as quickly as he came.

The loneliness was slightly more bearable when it was expected. Weeks in the underbrush, by himself, only coming into contact with those he needed to, the sharp pain lessened to a dull ache. But he knew this would be no long term solution every time he would happen upon a village and a child would smile at him, take him gently by the hand and pull him inside. Every time a woman would smile and gently ask if she could help him clean his armor. Every time a man saw him and sat him down, asked him to tell a story. He was holding a bandage to a bleeding wound, never bothering to patch it up properly.

He broke once. Only once.

It was dark. The cold had started seeping in through the cracks of summer, turning leaves brown and making mist rise from the hills. He’d had a job hunting down a beast that had slain livestock in a nearby village. The beast wasn’t mortal, nor was it willing to die. Its claws hadn’t paused at his armor, cutting through the metal as if it were paper. It had ended with the both of them covered in blood and muck, tumbling down a riverbank until Leon got his sword through its maw.

It was done. He was done.

Everything hurt, _everything._ He didn’t gasp to the heavens, didn’t cry out in rage and pain, didn’t valiantly struggle towards civilization. No, there was a certain type of story that suited such dramatics, but not this one. He’d had quite enough of the drama, to be honest.

And…wasn’t it to be expected? Just a little? This line of work, perhaps even more so than being a knight, had a lot of high risks involved. Surely it was…expected that somewhere along the line, his luck would run out? A stray bolt from a crossbow, a lucky swipe from a rival’s sword, or a creature that was too damn stubborn to die. He was expected to die, wasn’t he?

Leon never was one to leave things this important up to chance.

He collapsed onto the ground, breathing heavily. It was dark. He couldn’t see anything much more than vague outlines in the shadows. He could feel more than see the gaping holes in his armor and the blood. So much blood. _So…_ much…

With trembling fingers, he reached up to undo the leather straps, hissing through his teeth when the metal finally fell away. There was less pressure on his side now, which…was good…wasn't it? Less…less pressure? No…no, it was supposed…supposed to be…well, that’s only if…if he wanted to live.

He had to feel around for the pommel of his sword in the darkness. There…there it was…he was glad he had taken it with him. A sword…good weapon, a sword…had…had many benefits.

No. Focus. Come on…just a little longer.

His sword was bathed in Dragonfire, as had been insisted. He…he was trusted to…to carry it…make sure it…didn’t fall into the…the wrong hands. But now…now magic was legal…now…now people could defend themselves…now people had less of…of a reason to attack…attack people…right?

It…it would work…right?

The sword’s blade caught the last vestiges of light, letting Leon see his reflection. Oh…oh, he was crying. When did he start doing that? Well, there…there wasn’t much use in wiping them away, he was…he wasn’t going to need his tears for very much longer. There was something freeing, he decided, about laying on the cold ground, in the dark, in the cold, being able to cry without needing to hide it.

Leon always made sure his blade was sharp. And it wasn’t like it was going to have to cut through anything particularly difficult.

He didn’t sob, didn’t yell when the blade pierced his chest. What would be the point? He did hiss through his teeth as the pain tried to steal the words from his throat. He didn’t have any left to give, not that there were any people around to listen.

Warm…blood was warm…and it was so cold outside, surely…surely it would be okay if…if there were…more?

The blade didn’t make a sound as he pulled it out. Maybe he just couldn’t hear anymore.

It was dark…

so…

dark…

then it wasn’t.

He never tried again. He knew it wouldn’t work. Plus, he had found something.

Merlin was still around too.

Merlin, sweet, lovely, clumsy Merlin. Merlin, the Greatest Sorcerer to Walk the Earth who still had trouble asking for the right food in a tavern. He left Camelot alone after Merlin had, but they found each other in a small town, leagues away from Camelot’s borders. They had a meal, spoke in polite smiles and soft laughs, and parted.

Then they met again when new forces came to invade and they were the only two who tried to resist long past the others. This time it was hushed words, murmured reassurances, a handshake.

They lost count of how many times they ran into each other before—

well. Before Leon found Merlin with a sword in his _own_ hand.

Merlin raged. Screamed. Hurled magic at Leon until the very forest trembled. Cursed him, cursed destiny, cursed old names Leon couldn’t hope to understand.

They cried together that night.

Loneliness wasn’t as much of an ache when Merlin was around, Leon found. It was easier to tell a story when he wasn’t alone. And they had to sort out their _own_ story, the years they had spent together. And it was…easier, truly, it was, to make sense of Camelot when they both knew it. It had taken them a while to…prepare themselves to talk about it again, old wounds still tingling, but when they did it was well worth it.

Merlin showed him the lake. They made little lanterns out of leaves and twigs, set them afloat. Merlin let flame catch delicately on the edges of the leaves as they drifted on the water. They promised to tell the stories of those who had been taken.

After that, it was…smoother. Not easier, but smoother. People didn’t change as much as they had been led to believe, no. There were still the same problems there had always been, just colored ever so slightly with a different shade. A child would still come to take them gently by the hands and lead them to play. Families would still choose each other, enveloping another in warm embraces and laughing smiles. Stories were lived, told, evolved together. People were still people. That made it a little easier, seeing the same old sparks in different flames.

Leon learned how to watch ages ago. He learned how to pay attention, hold his tongue, choose his words carefully. Over the years he hones it, makes it better. Learns how to watch new worlds that resemble the old. Learns the new ways of saying old things.

Keeps an eye on Merlin.

Merlin, he knows, has lived more in his one lifetime than perhaps Leon ever will. He knows he’s barely scratched the surface of Merlin’s world, knows that nothing— _nothing—_ will ever make him betray the man who’s already sacrificed so much. He knows Merlin, despite what the man thinks, and thus he knows not to push.

After all, he doesn’t want to drive the only other immortal away.

He doesn’t know what he would do without Merlin. He doesn’t know what they would’ve _done_ without Merlin. He’s sure as hell not trying to find out.

The day Merlin tells him about the destiny, Leon cries anew. Because of how _much_ this means. How _horrible_ they were to him because they didn’t _understand._ How this destiny makes every single little thing they’ve done so much more abusive than they ever intended. He falls to his knees that day, for the first time since he left Camelot, begging for forgiveness, for a chance to prove he’s changed, just to repent for Merlin.

Merlin doesn't give him the chance, falling to his own knees and clinging to Leon like two twigs in a stormy river. Chokes out how much he doesn’t care what’s happened between them, they’re _here_ now, and that he’s forgiven him, he’s forgiven him, several times over. How Leon has already done so much for him that he couldn’t hope to hold a grudge.

Leon’s not sure he believes that, not entirely, but he believes Merlin. He will always believe Merlin.

So when Merlin says Arthur’s coming back, he believes him. When Merlin calls him, breathless, traces of tears in his voice, Leon drops everything and rushes to Merlin’s apartment.

He’s waited 1500 years too, you know.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Come yell at me on tumblr while we're all in quarantine. 
> 
> https://a-small-batch-of-dragons.tumblr.com/


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